


The Process of Convergence is not a Destination

by pamdizzle



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Art and Fic, First Time, Fluff and Angst, John is Not Amused, John's POV, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Romance, Sexual Situations, Sherlock Minibang, Sherlock is back, TheFarFireArt, Tumblr Prompt, bloody nose, things get resolved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-01
Updated: 2013-12-01
Packaged: 2018-01-03 03:54:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1065458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pamdizzle/pseuds/pamdizzle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the Sherlock Minibang on Tumblr, wherein paired contributors focus on the reaction of a character of their choosing to Sherlock's coming back from the dead, or not dead, as it turns out. ;) TheFarFire, who is absolutely incredible imo, and I chose to do our contribution based on John's reaction. Fic by me, Art by TheFarFire. </p><p>Shouldn't contain any spoilers for Series 3 that haven't been revealed in the previews. Rating is for mild sexy bits. :)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Process of Convergence is not a Destination

**Author's Note:**

> _What it really is, as with all things Sherlock Holmes, is a logical progression. It’s a careful, systematic procedure that guides them from start to conclusion._

 

 

It should have been a realization. A slow dawning…with some foreshadowing, a bit of bloody forewarning at that.  What it actually is, as with all things Sherlock Holmes, is a whirlwind—a pit-of-the-stomach drop and a hammer to the head. Or, fist to the nose in this case. John experiences the emotions in quick succession—tick, tick, tick—like the second-hand on a very loud grandfather clock.

Shock. The obvious, first knee-jerk reaction. One who was dead, is now clearly not. Impossible, only not. It’s _Sherlock_ —eyes alight as always, thin as he was the day they first met, and pale as a ghost, though not actually a ghost, the detective claims.

Joy. It’s a swarm of elation and excitement: SHERLOCK! The mad, utter bastard. He pulled it off. If anyone could have, it was certainly Sherlock. He was here. Alive. In front of John, _not_ a ghost or a dream but the best and worst kind of magician.

And that’s the crux of it, isn’t it? And there it is: Fury. Swift and aching and overpowering. It’s the dinner table and subsequent three steps between them, the potential energy of the draw and kinetic force of delivery, the fist to the nose and the spray of blood over John’s knuckles and jacket. There are words. They don’t come. Instead, it’s another dose of shock. The pain in his hand is affirmation of what he sees, a purely physical acknowledgement. “Sherlock.”

A cough and a groaned, “John.”

Relief. Swift and sure and unsettling in its palpability. “ _Sherlock._ ” In a blink, John is on his knees, his arms outstretched and his hands clutching a shoulder and the back of a curly-haired head. There are raised voices, a chorus of the reality that continues to spin around them, but John can’t exist in two moments at once and right now he’s back _there_ , in an instant. Back to that moment where one reality diverged into alternates—the one John has made himself live and the one Sherlock has hidden all this time. And it’s back to the rage, because really he should have known. He should have been there to—

“ _John…_ ”

“You utter twat.” The words finally come, though not as John would have probably planned them. “All this time…I saw you jump. I saw you die—you _made me_ watch—I don’t know whether to kill you or kiss you, you bloody bastard.”

The body underhand is real and solid, and the smile on that face— _this face—_ that’s real too. “Are you offering me the choice?”

 

It shouldn’t have been such a slow dawning, so many weeks from the merging of two divergent realities. It shouldn’t have taken losing everything. He should have known—they should have seen. There’s always something, Sherlock has said and John agrees. What it really is, as with all things Sherlock Holmes, is a logical progression. It’s a careful, systematic procedure that guides them from start to conclusion.

Purpose is causal. A Reaffirmation. Validation. A statement and a question. It’s a meeting years ago, a dangerous road and a perilous parting of ways. It’s been a long time since John’s been here. In this flat, with Sherlock, and he’s known that the talking needed to be done but he’s here. And it’s now. And whatever purpose John had when he stepped beyond the threshold, whatever he’d told himself before agreeing to come here…he can’t remember now. “Tea?” Sherlock asks. John takes a step forward and hangs his coat on a hook—no, _his hook_. “Come here,” John hears himself say, and Sherlock does. 

A hypothesis is born of unsolicited knowledge. Knowing what it is to have something, and then to not just surmise but experience what it would be like to lose it. To fear what it would mean to ever know that reality again. It’s a mindful convergence, a lingering stare that pulls together hesitant lips. John’s half-aborted gesture met with solid, enthusiastic response. It’s feeling Sherlock’s hands in his hair; it’s John’s arms around slim, angular hips with his back against familiar walls. It’s not knowing exactly what to do next or what will happen afterward, but not caring in the least. John knows that Sherlock is wary, that he can feel John’s trepidation but when he opens his mouth, it’s not the retreat he knows Sherlock expects. Instead, John says, “Don’t, _Sherlock_ …don’t stop.”

                They don’t stop. This is their test, and though John wasn’t prepared for this—not tonight, not now, not before the words—he seems to have the answers beneath his palms. He looks down at Sherlock, naked in more ways than one, his hair spread messily against silk sheets and he knows this is the natural order of them, from the beginning. The pillows are scattered over the floor with their clothes and the night-side table they knocked over in their haste to the bed and it’s the perfect outward expression of worlds colliding. Sherlock’s eyes never leave his as John grips their members and rocks them slowly. Together they explore new water, these things that have always simmered under the surface of ‘them’ but boiled over during their painstaking separation, which now come to fill them both whenever they are near.

“I missed you,” John finally says and repeats reverently, “missed you…” and he would say more but his lips have taken themselves to Sherlock’s neck and he can’t quit tasting, can’t quit touching and feeling and having.

Sherlock’s hands cling desperately to the back of John’s head and neck as he pushes up to echo John’s movement. “ _Yes,_ ” he shudders when John’s hand twists and pulls. Whatever apology might have followed, John quiets it with a kiss and they’re falling apart together.

It’s neither a conclusion nor a new beginning. It’s a continuation—a methodical procession from one aspect of their convergence to the next. There is pain and regret, but joy too and forgiveness and time. Whatever comes tomorrow or the next day, John will always be here. Where he belongs, beside this amazing, insufferable, undefinable man, and it’s all fine because they’ll figure it out. They always do.

 

[](http://s1374.photobucket.com/user/pamdizzle1/media/minibang_zps75b2d82f.jpg.html)

**Author's Note:**

> I also write original m/m erotica fiction, if you're interested. You can find it [here](http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/store/index.php?cPath=55_1117)


End file.
